


「 re:flection 」

by ToasTea



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: //disney copyright strike//, AU Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/M, GoT universe, Post-King's Landing, SOMEONE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII DONT KNOW, WHO I AM THOUGH I'VE TRI-, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, comfort!dany, dany and jorah are so cheesy they make mozerella look cheap, mormont manpain lmao, sOMMMMEEEHOW I CANNOT HIDEE, soft snuggles and kisses, wHY IS MY REFLECTION
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea
Summary: While he has found some form of solid footing being with her, he still cannot hold such a gaze for long without shying away, for what he sees frightens him to an extent.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 32
Kudos: 46





	「 re:flection 」

**Author's Note:**

> Hello one and all. Here's what happened:
> 
> Me: "Phew, I'm tired. Gonna go to bed now."  
> My mind and body as soon as I turn off the lights and get in bed: "LMAOOO SIKE bitch you thought witcho stupid ass here's a bunch of shit for your ship."  
> ಠ_ಠ
> 
> I also took this opportunity to try and get back into writing. Hit a slump after the Winter Jorleesi event along with a bunch of other life events hOOOO boi. Also tryna get in some practice for the Jorleesi Exchange which I'm still hella hyped for. Totally haven't started yet WOOP WOOP #plsdontstealmybacon
> 
> Anyways, sit back, grab a beer or two or three, and (try to) enjoy some (sort of short) early morning musings because it's #MormontManPainMarch. Apologies for any spelling/grammar mistakes, not beta'd.

There is a deafening silence that washes over the crowd upon his arrival. Their faces twist with disgust, most likely from his weathered state.

He is caked in dirt and dry blood, the only spoils from war are the few lives of the men behind him and his own. Victory is a bitter additive to his dry mouth. His limbs are blighted by fatigue, but drag him forward regardless using the remainders of his northern stubbornness. 

Citizens willingly part for them, weaving a path to the queen that awaits his return.

Their opinions are the least of his worries. He stood and fought for only one person. 

The only thought that puppeteers his soul is to return to her side and gift her with a monumental victory. She does not need to return his love, even a drip of her queenly affection would be enough to remedy the cuts and bruises that mar his disheveled features.

But when he reaches the end, when the last person parts to the side, what he sees shatters his brittle heart.

There stood Daenerys Stormborn, her silver figure doused in the radiance of the sun’s beams. She is smiling, but not at him.

There stood a man he was unfamiliar with. He appears older than her by only a few years, chiseled jaw, short and well-kept tussle of brown hair, eyes deeper than the shore surrounding the city, a tunic that was specifically weaved to complement his fit form. 

But the most prominent feature was the arm affectionately wrapped around the queen’s waist. 

It’s nothing new to him, this vicious cycle of heartbreak he’d locked himself in. Yet, it hurts nonetheless. The image before him is a haunting reflection of when he returned to Lynesse from his sellsword duty only to find she had run off with a richer man. 

They are not betrothed let alone lovers, but it hurts him as if they were.

Her smile falls when he arrives. He kneels, moreso collapses, before her nevertheless and lowers his head. Duty is the enduring string that keeps him from falling apart and weaves a trap to keep the tears at bay. 

“That took you quite some time.” Her words sever the silence and smooths out the tension in the air, but her impatience is apparent.

“Forgiv-”

“I apologize, Your Grace.”

Jorah raises his head at the voice. 

In front of him knelt a figure, face obscured by his crouching form. Perhaps it was the fatigue that had dulled Jorah’s senses for he did not remember seeing that person there before. 

But his voice sounded vaguely familiar. 

“There numbers were greater than anticipated,” continues the man, “but they were still no match for my men in the end.”

Jorah opened his mouth to speak, but exhaustion crept in and lodged itself in his throat, words muted by a coughing fit. 

“I expected nothing less,” she replies matter-of-factly. 

“I am glad I did not disappoint, my queen.”

They speak as though he were a ghost.

“Khaleesi,” Jorah calls out, but it was no more than a hoarse whisper. 

“Gather the others,” she continued without so much as a glance his direction. “Your victory coincides with my betrothal to Lord Darius. I believe a celebration is in order.”

He watches her interlock her fingers with the hand around her wais. Her gaze turns affectionate as it wanders to the man beside her, and it feels like someone is hammering at the shards of his broken heart.

“Of course, Your Grace.” 

Daenerys turns and walks away, wrapping her arm around the lord’s trim waist.

He instinctively reaches out for her.

_Khaleesi_ , he wants to say but it felt as though some celestial force was minding his tongue. 

He tries to move forward but fails, his hands keeping him from falling face-first into the cobble. 

_Please._

Tears brew in his eyes and blur his vision, but when he fights them off and raises his head once more, she is gone. What is left is a thin trail of smoke that ascends into the sky.

The kneeling figure finally stands. He is tall, a white cape falling from his broad shoulders, his black armor pristine and well-kept, hair kissed by the sun that curled at the nape, a calloused hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his posture proud and confident. 

It finally dawns on him, his hands fisting into the ground beneath him as a rock forms in his stomach.

_No._

When the figure turns, his face is but a cruel ploy from the gods. 

Jorah knows this man. He knows him well because it is _him._

Younger, more honorable, stronger, without a single trace of grey flaking his beard, eyes full of youth and life. 

His doppelganger shakes its head, a smirk turns a corner of its lips, and it looks at him as though he were a downed dog. 

“Even in this universe where you are younger and stronger, where fantasy becomes reality, you are still not enough for her.”

Its words are like a punch to the gut. He’s not unfamiliar with the truth in them but even conditioned from rejection, the pain from its thorns splinter across his body as though they were fresh, rooting and twisting itself into his open wounds.

He hears metal scraping against leather, but he doesn’t care for it. Nothing can be louder than his lack of worth. 

“You never will be,” it says. 

It steps closer until it’s directly in front of him, but he refuses to look. Footsteps close in from behind him as well, but he pays no mind to any of it. Not to the blades at his neck, to the cheers of the crowd, to the blood beneath his hands from digging his nails to deep. 

Only the darkness behind his wet eyelids provided any form of safety for him as the jeers grew louder and louder. The earth beneath him opened its mouth in cadence and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, did the rush of a sword slicing through the wind fulfill his silent pleas.

* * *

Jorah wakes with a sharp breath, his chest heaving, sweat dotting his body. His eyes dart around in an attempt to steady his bearings. 

A small hand presses against his cheek and he turns to see the very woman next to him who had vanished moments ago. His hand lifts, nearly scrambles to touch the one on his cheek. Fingers brush against her lithe ones as his mind pieces reality back together, his heart hastily trying to distinguish what was real and what wasn’t. His eyes scan her face as if searching for even a speck of witchcraft the gods wanted to cast upon him. 

Concern fills her purple eyes, furrows her brows and parts her lips. She blinks after a few beats, tension relieving itself from her shoulders and eventually, she permits a small smile. An image that exorcises the plague surrounding his soul and rids the invisible weight on his chest. 

He takes a deep breath for what feels like the first time in a moon, and swallows the emotions formed in his throat.

She is here with him and she is real. Sharing the same room, the same bed, the same breath.

She is as beautiful as was depicted in that hellish landscape despite everything, like a flower in a barren wasteland. Her silver hair cascades across her bare shoulders, the flicker of flames from the hearth casts a soft orange across her pale skin. She is all the more ethereal combined with the moonlight filtering through the windows. The furs are fisted across her chest, making her seem smaller, and he so desperately wants to scoop her up in his arms and never let go. 

He slowly pushes himself upright, letting the blankets fall to his waist. She scoots closer to him, caressing his rough cheek before drifting to play with the curls at his nape.

“Forgive me for waking you,” he whispers, letting his forehead fall against hers.

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

He remembers the first time near the beginning of their relationship. They were more violent, with him thrashing about and her saving him from falling to his self-inflicted fate within his own abyss.

The nightmares are less frequent nowadays, but they still exist in the recesses of his mind. Like an army during a siege, camping outside the walls, orchestrating attacks in systematic waves stubbornly despite its dwindling numbers. 

He had always fought against them alone, but that was no longer the case. Each time he fought, she was always there when he opened his eyes. He was conditioned to waking up alone, coping with whatever methods he could find at his disposal. But to be able to behold her every time was a better balm than any medicinal salve, more protective than a bandage swathe. 

_You have protected me from my enemies time and time again. Let me protect you from yours, my bear._

That’s what she told him the first time and since then, he’s clung to those words like a man starved of affection. The cracks will never disappear, but her love for him of all people has been filling the crevices over time, renewing it into something that’s still foreign to him.

No universe could ever hold the amount of love he has for her. No book in this world could ever help him understand how she allowed him to have a home in her heart.

He shuts his eyes and breathes her in, a pleasant blend of different floral types that soothes his soul.

She says nothing, simply allowing her touch to do the speaking, her finger curling around his short hairs. She’s familiar with this routine of his, lets him control what he could not in his nightmare.

Gods, he loves her.

He takes her free hand and places a lingering kiss on her knuckles before slipping away. He swings his legs over the be, puts on his breeches, and makes for the doors to the balcony.

He can hear her behind him, slipping on clothing before following him close behind. In the past, he would have encouraged her to get some sleep and that he would only be out for a few, but she would have none of it. Her spirit is as resilient as the hyde of her house sigil.

* * *

The night nibbles at his sweat-ridden body. Their nights have been chill at most, but nothing more. The wind is a welcome relief after spending half of the night trapped in a dimension he wanted no part of. He inhales deeply, letting the crisp air mixed with the salt of the sea fill his lungs before releasing. 

Their balcony overlooks the rest of King’s Landing. A few flickers of light dot the city like fireflies in the grass. Even at this hour, there are still a few bustling with activity.

A small smile curves his lips when he feels a pair of lithe arms snake around his waist. 

“I’ll never tire of this view.”

She hums in agreement, gently ushering him to turn around. 

“Me neither,” she says, sliding a hand up his chest to sift through the patch of hair there.

“I don’t think you’re talking about the city,” he chuckles, pulling her closer. He sees now that she’s opted to put on his dark tunic. Its nearly twice her size and seems more like a dress, yet it’s an endearing image that never fails to make his heart swell. 

“Hm? Of course I’m talking about the city,” she teases, eyes dancing with amusement. “Where is your mind, Ser?”

“Pondering the climate, my queen,” he says innocently.

She huffs. “The climate.”

He feels much lighter than before, their flirty banter nourishing his heart and mind. It shouldn’t surprise him. Liberating people from their plights was second nature to her. It’s underlined in one of her many titles - Breaker of Chains.

His forehead finds a home against hers, their noses softly nuzzling one another as silence blankets them. When words are few between them, he relishes her touch even more, slowly mending what he had endured. 

Her hand cards against his chest hair, sliding up his neck before landing on his stubbled cheek. 

Their gazes lock, and the amount of pure, unadulterated love he sees there nearly makes his knees buckle. Her lips convey a ghost of a smile, her purple hues never falters against his blue eyes. Perhaps it’s but a figment of his imagination, but she looks at him as though she can’t believe he’s real. As if she had turned the tables on him the moment she confessed two years ago. 

It was so painfully easy for him to love her from afar. Affectionate gazes, that he thought she would never return, ones she couldn’t see as he stood behind her, protecting and serving all those years. 

To have that reflected in her eyes here and now is still damn near unbelievable. The feeling is still foreign to him; being loved back. Genuinely loved with no desires for riches his pockets could barely afford, no army behind his name. Genuinely loved despite the failures marred on his skin and reputation. 

It still overwhelms him. He cannot stop from searching her eyes for lies as it is a second nature he is still trying to break. And while he has found some form of solid footing being with her, he still cannot hold such a gaze for long without shying away, for what he sees frightens him to an extent.

His eyes dart away after a few moments. The potted greenery beside them, the ground, anything is much easier for him to bear. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously, a deep breath flaring from his nostrils.

Something so obvious would never go unnoticed by her, especially when they’re so close. She is just as perceptive of him as he is with her.

She knows exactly what courses through his mind without asking. And with only the occasional wind to break their silence, she gently beckons him with her hand on his cheek.

His gaze quivers a bit before obliging, albeit reluctantly. When he looks again, his mind suddenly recalls a certain memory.

_I hope you will be able to see what I see in you one day, Jorah._

Even if he wanted to run, he wouldn’t be able to. Her gaze is strong, unwavering, so raw in its intent that it locks him in place. She softly smiles at his parted lips and searching eyes, fingers scraping along the stubble peppering his jaw. 

He sees the small reflection of him in her eyes. It’s faint, but there nonetheless. He sees a weathered warrior who has seen better days, older than most, plagued by failures, marred by scars, grey in what was once a bright sheen of golden hair. 

At the center of her profound affection, is him.

Her strongest love. His strongest enemy.

Just him, only him.

His breath hitches at the sight. His eyes flicker between hers still searching, still beholding. He fights in vain against the tears that begin to brim his eyes. 

He relinquishes a hand from her waist to find residence on her cheek. She is soft under his rough skin. 

Yet, it is a constant revelation to him. How much one look from her can suddenly make him feel less unattractive. Even if it’s only for few nights, one night, a meager second in time, he believes it. The beauty that exists in him, between them, in the sharp contrast of his callous hand against her porcelain features and how much she adores him. 

He feels much lighter than similar nights before. His heart swell with a happiness that he has yet to familiarize himself with, a feeling that surges through his veins and gives him more life than the blood from his organ ever could. 

Slowly, he tilts his head against her and closes his eyes, softly pressing his lips against hers in the most tender of kisses. His hand gently cards through her silver tresses, soft and pleasant like smoothing over a silk dress. Her hand trails down his neck and stops at his heart as though she were shielding him from whatever malevolence that dared threaten to break him. Her thumb smooths over the raised scar from the long night near his chest, sending a fleeting warmth to his core. 

When he pulls back, he offers her a small smile. “I’ll be out of a job if the city finds out the queen has been saving her lord commander more times than he could protect her.”

She giggles at that. “Well, I _am_ looking for a new handmaiden.”

“Hand _maiden_?”

“I promised to break the wheel, did I not?” she jests. “Seeing the man who fights with the strength of ten mainlanders in a dress is part of breaking the tradition and reviving it anew.”

“You have an ill sense of humor, Khaleesi,” he growls playfully while nuzzling her neck with soft kisses. 

“I’m helping you improve your lack of, Jorah,” she replies, giggling at his ministrations. 

He sweeps her off of her feet then, smiling as she squeaked from the sudden movement. Her arms loop around his neck as he moved back to their bedroom, using his foot to close the balcony door behind them. Their lips meet again and this time, it’s not as innocent as before. 

Perhaps this was the climax of a war he had been fighting against within him and he was nearing the end. Perhaps it will still go on for years. Perhaps it is something that will never end and remain a part of him as much as Daenerys was his heart. 

Whichever road fate decided upon, she would be by his side. The fierce dragon that would set ablaze whatever or whoever his enemies were, and drive away any plague that threatened his heart with the beat of her wings. 

For no one in this world could survive without help, and tonight was one of the many nights she has reminded him of how far he has come.

**Author's Note:**

> tl;dr  
> jorah: i'm not enough for her  
> dany: *SQUEEZES JORAHS CHEEKS WITH TWO PEACHES LIKE A SANDWICH BUT WITH PEACHES* WHAT ARE YOU???  
> jorah: I'M ENOUGH *QUACKS*
> 
> this story was brought to you by house ramsey on food network where everything is raw.
> 
> question: "yo who the frick is lord darius-"  
> answer: here's his official asoiaf portrait  
> 


End file.
